Into the Dark
by sinfinity
Summary: It occurred to him then, just how nice it felt to be out of the uniform that defined him. [Post40 mangaverse Roycentric]


The sun was setting in the desolate town, the sky a fiery mix of reds and oranges that really didn't belong in a sky anyway. The colors mixed together and were perpetually changing even though the viewer couldn't tell it; just an hour ago it had been blue and purple and pink, and in a short time these reds and oranges would be blues so deep they'd look black, and even if you watched closely, you wouldn't see that change exactly. Maybe that was what made the scene so beautiful.

He was sitting outside a dump of a hotel on a broken down chair facing East, so he never saw the sunset. The night sky was already dark the direction he stared. He pulled his drink up to his lips and closed his eyes tightly. He could drink as much as he wanted, he figured; being dressed in civilian clothes no one recognized who he was anyway.

It occurred to him how nice it felt to be out of the uniform that defined him.

There was no breeze that night. The air was perfectly still, and the only thing keeping him from thinking that the world had in fact stopped and he was in some sort of time warp, was that the lights in the street had just turned on, and people in their houses were beginning to flick on the lamps in their rooms to continue their work into the night.

He felt like that should be a cue, that there was somewhere he should go or something he should do, just as all these people were turning on lights just to keep doing their ever important tasks that no one knew but them. But he didn't. He kept his place, with his empty bottle in one hand and a cigarette twirling in the other.

Roy Mustang never smoked a day in his life. Why he kept a cigarette with him at all times now was honestly beyond him, but he did it nonetheless.

The silence in this town was nice, different from the last one with its bustling people and cars, its constant din and lack of darkness. This was nice. For a full two hours he'd been left alone outside to his drink and his thoughts and his unlit cigarette.

Alone wasn't something that he liked, but he'd begun to accept it.

Every day was different now for him. He used to have a routine, but now…every day was a different town with different faces and different voices that were unwilling to help. Each day he had to reintroduce himself and his cause, each day he had to start from scratch. But every night he ended up alone.

That was what he'd asked for, after all.

"I'll come with you," Hawkeye had said. "You'll need backup."

He'd looked at her from his hospital bed with his deep blue eyes, not disapprovingly, but not sympathetically. He'd just looked at her flatly and distantly and _dead _ and said, "I need to do this alone."

In the bed next to him, Havoc had shifted around in his sleep.

Roy leaned down and placed his bottle on the stone sidewalk under his chair, then stuck the cigarette between his lips. Digging his hand into his pocket, he searched for his glove. Slowly he pulled it out, tugged it onto his right hand, and snapped lightly.

A flame danced between his fingers, small enough to sit there, but bright enough to make him squint his eyes. He toyed with it, moved his fingers around deftly, allowed the flame to gather more oxygen and grow in size a bit before finally bringing that flame up to meet the end of his cigarette between his lips.

He hoped that years of watching his Second Lieutenant do this would pay off.

His Second Lieutenant, who was probably craving a smoke right now, still stuck in that sterile hospital, confined to his bed. But maybe not. For all Roy knew, Havoc could have been released, could be home by now. The Colonel hadn't been back in Central for three weeks, certainly Jean had recovered. Certainly they'd figured out what was wrong, cured him, sent him out on his way traipsing after girls, drinks, and cigarettes.

Roy puffed at the stick in his hand, choking a bit, but held it back and let the sick sensation leave him.

Leave him.  
Like everything always did.

He'd asked to be alone, and he didn't know why. Alone was the last thing he wanted. Alone was how he felt when he stood in solitude and watched an entire city, an entire _people_ burn at his hands. Alone was how he felt with his friends beside him while the dirt was shoveled over the coffin of his best friend, his brother. Alone was how he felt when he saw Havoc unmoving on the ground, blood seeping from his body in too many places, face turned pale.

It was how he felt every night when he had to climb into bed and quiet his mind enough to try to get some sleep, how he felt every morning when he woke to a bed much too big for him and just wanted someone to talk to, wish him a good day, give him a kiss goodbye.

Maybe it wasn't something he deserved, for all he'd done and the people he was now leaving behind. Hadn't he left them just the same? When things got tough and when they needed to stick together, if not for their cause then at least for Havoc… He'd left them to go at it alone, like this was something only he could do. The fact was, he _did _need them. And maybe they needed him too, but he ignored it. Was it revenge he wanted? Reparation? Retribution?

No. He just wanted to be alone. In a sick twisted irony.

For an hour he sat there, this time with the comforting scent of a burning cigarette to accompany him. When he took a deep breath his lungs hurt, partly from the smoke and partly from the burn wounds that still covered his side. He couldn't say he enjoyed the taste, because by all accounts it was one of the most disgusting things he'd ever done. That bitter flavor hung in his mouth even though he'd only take a puff every now and then, just enough to keep the cigarette lit, no more than needed.

It was worth it.  
It was always worth it.

The cigarette was nearing its end. Behind him the sky was becoming all dark. And he was getting kind of cold. He dropped what was left of the burning stick, flattened it under his boots, and stood up to retire to his room.

When he lay in bed, all he could do was smell the smoke on his hair and his clothes and his skin…and it made him fall asleep quicker than usual.

_---x---_

_"Someday you'll die, you know, Roy."_

_Jean's blue eyes glistened in front of him. His hair was a perfect mess as usual, his dress uniform was almost straight, and he had that crooked sort of smirk across his face. And he was standing - _standing_ - and that's what was important._

_"We're all going to. It's fine, I'm fine. I mean, I could have died then and it wouldn't have been your fault. I'm not really scared of death. I think you are though."_

_Everything was bright and clean around them, and even though it was a dream Roy could still smell smoke. He didn't mind._

_"You're not going to be alone. You don't have to be. We'd never do that to you. I don't think you'd do it to any of us either. We know that._

_"We'll follow you, Roy. And even if we beat you there, we'll still wait."_

_Jean was still standing in the light and the smoke even when Roy walked away. That's what mattered._

_---x---_

He waited at the station for two hours early in the morning to make sure he'd catch the first train back to Central for the day. He hadn't planned to go back, he'd planned to go further north, to follow his next lead. But there were storms that way, he'd heard. The skies were kind of dark, and he figured it best just to go home.

Or something like that.

The ride seemed shorter than usual, and even though he didn't want to believe it was the right choice, he went straight to the hospital. A receptionist flirted with him when he asked for a room number, but strangely enough he just took the visitor's pass and walked away, saying nothing but, "Thanks."

As he approached the room, he realized he didn't have anything planned to say to his subordinate that unknowingly awaited him. But he didn't really need it.

Roy tapped lightly on the door frame and poked his head in the door. He saw Jean, and the younger man was laying silently with his eyes closed, which made Roy's heart skip a beat, but he stirred then and yawned widely. Roy quietly entered.

"Second Lieutenant, I hope I'm not disturbing you," Roy said with a false confidence. He walked to Jean's bed, which was surrounded by flowers and pictures and teddy bears that were so unlike Havoc that Roy had to laugh to himself.

"Hey, Roy! Nah, come on in. How've you been?" He beamed at the sight of the older man, and it was obvious. Mustang himself couldn't tell if that was because he missed the Colonel in particular or just because he missed people. He hoped it was the former.

"I've been busy. I hope your recovery is going well…" He trailed off.

"Ah yea, recovery. They say I'm pretty much stuck like this. I can go home whenever I want to, but I just don't think I'm ready to yet. Don't wanna be a burden, ya know? But it's fine. I'm fine. Tell me what you've been up to."

Mustang was silent for a while. He thought of everywhere he'd gone and everyone he'd met and everything he'd found out…and it just didn't matter. What mattered was Havoc. And the fact that his life was now forever changed and thus far Roy had done absolutely nothing to help him.

He wanted desperately, more than ever, to do that now.

"A lot, Jean. There's a lot for me to catch you up on. You're allowed to leave you said?"

Havoc looked at him quizzically. "Well yea, I can, I just….why?"

"Where do you want to go?" That infamous Mustang smirk surfaced.

"Huh?"

"I want to get you out of here, even if just for a while. I'll fill you in on all I've been doing, you can fill me in on what's been going on here. Now come on, where do you want to go? I'll take you anywhere." Roy crossed his arms. He clearly meant business.

Jean thought long and hard, and Roy couldn't tell if that contorted face was out of confusion or too deep a thought, but eventually Jean's face lit up. "The beach," he said boldly.

Mustang laughed, wondering why on Earth of all places Jean was able to pick the one place Roy hated. The sand always got stuck under his nails and in his hair, and he hated swimming, for the same reason he hated the rain. The whole idea of beaches bothered him. "Why the beach?" he asked in his usual sarcastic tone.

"Well, I've never been. And I think my legs could use a tan." Jean's doofy grin never ceased to make his dumb attempts at jokes seem funny. Mustang laughed despite himself.

"Then the beach it is. I'll go get the paperwork done. You find your swimsuit."

It was nice to hear Jean's laugh, Mustang realized, and it hadn't occurred to him until then exactly how much he missed that.


End file.
